


Hermione Granger

by Veritaserum27



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Community: HPFT, Drama, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:18:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veritaserum27/pseuds/Veritaserum27
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <i>Voldemort is defeated, but your work is not done.<br/>You are needed more than ever.  You are stronger than you feel.</i>
  </p>
  <p>
    <i>You are Hermione Granger.</i>
  </p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue:  Harry needed her.

****

The Daily Prophet Headlines  
2nd May, 1999  
One Year Anniversary Celebration at Hogwarts

 

*

His pace quickened. There she was... standing on the edge of the large dias, near the stairs. He wound his way through the crowd, around the rows and rows of seats placed neatly on the lawn next to the Black Lake, nodding at those who were trying to catch his attention. So many people wanted to shake the hand of Ron Weasley on this day. But he pressed on, not holding eye contact with anyone for longer than an instant. His focus was only on her. Had she seen him yet? His legs wouldn’t carry him fast enough.

 

Almost there. Her back was to him and all he could see was her brown curls blowing gently in the wind. It’d been nearly five months since he’d laid eyes on her face and he could almost feel her small, warm hand nestled within his. He took one leap up the final three steps to meet her on the edge of the platform. She was talking to McGonagall, but he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t wait even one more second - 

 

“Hermione.”

 

His breath let out with the sound of her name, a relief on his lips and suddenly it was sucked right back in as he gasped louder than he wanted to when she turned. She gave a tight smile that stretched the skin of her neck and revealed all the cartilage and hollows and emptiness within her. She gingerly placed her hand on his arm and he couldn’t help but note how _frail_ she seemed. He knew he was terrible at hiding his emotions and his facial expressions always gave him away, but he couldn’t care less about that at the moment. 

 

His hand rose protectively to the side of her face, needing to touch, to be sure she was real and soft and _there_. His blue eyes searched desperately, drinking in every detail that he’d been missing over the months as well as assessing her sunken eyes, taut skin and wan look. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him. She felt so tiny, so breakable.

 

He would’ve held on all day, if she hadn’t pulled back.

 

“Ron, we’re just about to begin. We must take our seats.”

 

He felt someone come up behind him and grudgingly loosened his grip, but did not let go of her hand. She lifted her head to speak to the man behind him.

 

“Hello Harry. You, Ron and I are sitting over there.” 

 

Even her voice was timid, a shell of the woman he’d seen off on Platform Nine and Three Quarters after Christmas Holidays only months before.

 

No mirth. No lightness. No inflections whatsoever. He pulled her hand towards him and led her to their seats. If it had been anything, _anything_ but the one-year anniversary of the defeat of Voldemort, he would’ve lifted her up right there and whisked her away with him. Away to anywhere, anywhere but here. Anywhere safe and warm and calm for her.

*

 

Nearly thirteen months earlier.

The pain reverberated through her body for six days. A jolt would pass through without warning and her muscles would spasm. For the most part, she was able to play it off as an itch or a small stumble, and no one was the wiser.

 

In the hands of a lesser witch, the spell should’ve ceased its effect the moment that the caster lifted their wand. But Hermione suspected that Bellatrix had put her own sick twist on the _cruciatus_. The latent ache and soreness wore off with torturous indifference to her weary body. 

 

But no matter. Harry was in the midst of putting together a plan - and they were _so close_ to getting the next horcrux. She continued to push the pain aside and disguise the piercing twinges with a cough. Breaking into Gringotts was no small feat and they all needed to be on top of their game.

 

In retrospect, the first night was the easiest. Fatigue and exhaustion overtook the screaming pain from wounds both physical and emotional. And Ron was there - solid and warm and wrapping himself around her through the night as if he could ward off the demons that lie within. 

 

If Hermione had had one brief moment to consider the events, she would’ve realized that he hadn’t let her go for even one instant since they’d apparated from Malfoy Manor. Not through Dobby’s burial or the quick meal that Fleur had prepared for all the new houseguests; not even during the time she’d undressed briefly, Ron turning his head to look out the window, but always, always with their fingers entwined as she vanished her clothing and conjured a loose fitting nightdress.

 

Sleep came quickly that night. Through the residual burning of her nerve endings and the jolts of pain that shook her body, sheer exhaustion won over. 

 

The next several weeks were busied with plotting and planning. Harry lied to Griphook, which didn’t sit well with her, but there simply wasn’t time to argue the point. They needed his expertise. There were so many uncertainties with Harry’s plot, there wasn’t even time to entertain the absurdity of breaking into Gringott’s Bank, of all places. If a Horcrux was there, they were _duty bound_ to get it, and there was nothing more to it than that.

 

Everything was a must. Every detail needed to be considered carefully. She had to be ready to think on her feet. She was the clever one, Harry reminded her, quick with spells and facts and details.

 

Harry needed her.


	2. Ron needed her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daily Prophet Headlines  
> 3rd May, 1998  
> The Prophecy is Real! The Boy Who Lived Dies - and Lives! We Are Victorious

**Daily Prophet Headlines  
3rd May, 1998  
The Prophecy is Real! The Boy Who Lived Dies - and Lives! We Are Victorious**

*

Fred died.

 

And Tonks and Professor Lupin and Colin and so had Harry, for that matter.

 

And Bellatrix.

 

Hermione had reasoned that, once she faced off with her torturer in a fair fight, she'd be able to hold her own. She was a quick thinker and pretty good with defensive spells, but Bellatrix was more powerful than she’d ever _imagined_ possible. Her black eyes pierced through to Hermione’s soul and the writhing pain seemed to bubble up from inside her, simply from that evil black stare. 

 

Even fighting alongside Ginny and Luna, the trio couldn’t take Bellatrix. In the throes of battle, she tried to use her pain and suffering as leverage against Voldemort's most loyal servant, but instead, she felt herself growing weaker. All her Gryffindor courage, all the sacrifices and giving up Ron and her parents and Hogwarts to look for the horcruxes - she was drained. 

 

It was Molly, in her own fury and rage and grief, that finally put an end to the madness. 

 

Hermione wasn't strong enough.

 

That was the initial moment Hermione felt the weakness seeping through her. The war was over. The Order had won. But the loss was so great. In all the hours and months and _years_ , she’d never once doubted the veracity of the path she’d chosen. As she stood in The Great Hall and counted the deaths, she awed at her own foolishness and righteousness. Lives were lost and changed and damaged.

 

She stood with Ron and his family and held them. And when Harry disappeared for a nap and a sandwich, Hermione stayed in the Great Hall and did her best to help out wherever she could. People needed a shoulder to cry on - either from great loss or inexplicable joy. 

 

*

 

Burnt hair and a dry cough. Nearly two weeks had passed and she held him at Fred’s funeral, the way he had held her after Malfoy Manor. When her parents had watched their Muggle films on WWII, none of the funerals ever showed the dry cough that passed around, from the soot and dust they’d inhaled during the battle. She thought both hers and Ron’s hair would never lose the putrid scent from the Fiendfyre. She couldn’t get used to the smell - or get rid of it, either, though she’d trimmed off the singed parts and washed with every soap imaginable. 

 

He kept her anchored to reality as he collapsed from his grief against her. She rubbed his arm and smoothed his hair and stroked his face. A twinge of guilt took hold as she stared at his freckled hand entwined with hers. Both their hands still bore scratches and cuts from the battle that were healing. _Healing_. For the millionth time in two weeks, she thought; _it could’ve been Ron._ They were all fighting together in that corridor when the castle wall exploded. She knew she shouldn’t be, but she was _relieved_ that he hadn’t been the one killed. She squeezed his hand a bit tighter. The sound of quiet cries and not-so-muffled coughs just made Fred’s coffin seem more silent.

 

He shook with sobs, trying to hold them in for the sake of his parents. And Hermione held her own shudders inside for the sake of Ron.

 

Fred died. 

 

It’d been different with Sirius and Dumbledore. They both had lived so much, it was almost as if they’d been expecting death - welcoming it. It was easier to accept, but with Fred… Hermione wasn’t sure it is was because he was so young or so close, or so _alive_.

 

The following days meant more funerals and memorials and reminders of death - a _spiral_ of death and regret and inexplicable pain at the reality of loss. It was very nearly the same people each time. She stood next to Ron’s side at every one.

 

The kiss they’d shared during the final battle seemed years and years away. Another lifetime, really, and it simply wasn’t the time to discuss what happened in the past or what was to come of the future or where they were at that very moment. For now it was all dirges and coughs and burnt hair.

 

*

 

Dead is not always dead.

 

The nightmares began a fortnight after the battle. She was at the Burrow, sleeping on a spare cot in Ginny’s room, propriety having been restored to the group. No more did Ron’s solid, frame hold her through the night. Hermione thought sleeping by the rules of proper society would make her feel more normal and the thrumming undercurrent of her mind racing would be replaced by a hint of normality. But his absence simply left her feeling hollow and restless. Her body was used to sleeping with one ear trained on the sounds around her, listening for the curse of a snatcher or worse - a Death Eater who’d discovered their hideout - and that simply couldn’t be switched off in a mere two weeks.

 

The first time was more of a shadow. A whisper of an idea of the terror that had filled her along with the pain from the _cruciatus_ curse. She woke with a start, wheezing in breaths that were too shallow to get oxygen to her system. The pain reverberated through all her nerve endings and she shook with such force that the cot rumbled against the floorboards. 

 

Fingers braced the metal frame as she willed herself to calm. After several minutes, her heart still thudded relentlessly in her chest, she was at least only shaking in small spurts, rather than violent, aching shudders.

 

As the physical symptoms wore off and the pounding rush of blood in her ears lessened, she became aware of a distinct whimpering. She held her breath to force herself to stop. The soft sounds continued and it took a moment for her to realize they weren’t coming from her own throat.

 

Ginny. Crying out for Fred in her sleep.

 

Hermione crept across the room and halted as she eyed the mound under the blankets that was responsible for the muffled cries. It was much too long to be Ginny, but the bright red hair that peeked out of the top left no doubt. Ginny had again snuck out to the top floor to be with Harry. Hermione didn’t falter. She lifted the blankets and settled in next to him. Ron turned, whining in his sleep and cradled his head against Hermione’s shoulder. She wrapped her arms around and squeezed tight, whispering soothing words in his ear. The whimpers lessened and finally ceased. Hermione felt her heart rate slowing and the warmth and strength of his arms lulled her. Proper society could go to hell. 

 

Ron needed her.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! Thanks so much for stopping by my story. Feel free to let me know what you think!


End file.
